


Fairy Lights

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: pornish_pixies, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-05
Updated: 2006-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's a good mate, Ron thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Lights

**Author's Note:**

> For the Yule Ball Challenge at Pornish Pixies. Many thanks to M., my last-minute beta.

When Ron first stamps upstairs, face hot and Hermione's screeches still ringing in his ears, he feels like he might have to hit something, maybe the wall.

But Harry comes slouching up after him, and he's— he's good about it. Doesn't tease or give him funny looks. He acts like there's nothing wrong while he gets changed, pale skin of his back stretching above the waistband of his trousers as he bends over. And Ron feels better already by the time he's out of those ridiculous dress robes and into his pyjamas, in his comfortable bed among the cool sheets and squashy blankets.

Neville is last to come up, avoiding Ron's gaze as he slinks into bed. Earlier in the evening Ron had passed him in the corridor, and he remembers how Neville pulled his hand hastily out of Ginny's, alarmed as he saw him coming. Ron stalked past pretending he hadn't seen them, and now a red little bit of anger sparks up in his stomach again, but he's really too tired to keep it going.

As they're settling in and chorusing goodnights, Harry catches his eye through the closing curtains and gives him one small smile, understanding and sardonic. Harry's a good mate, Ron thinks.

It takes a long time for the tower to get quiet; Ron can hear the third-years shuffle and laugh across the hall. Quick footfalls rushing to the upper forms, past curfew.

Exciting night for some. Ron wonders how many people got their first kisses tonight. He never really thought about that before — of course it's something everyone does sometime, but it seemed far away, unreal. He tries to think what it might be like to be hiding in the muddy shrubberies with Padma Patil's mouth against his, but it doesn't sit right.

His mind's drifting a little now, sleepy. It goes from walking with Harry among the fairy lights and Snape and Karkaroff blasting the scarlet rose bushes, to sitting back with the music pounding around them, robes scratchy-stiff but Harry warm and solid beside him, pressing subtly against his shoulder. When he got near Padma it was like there was nothing to hold onto, a slender wisp of silky pink fabric under his fingertips. He didn't like the _texture_ of her.

He thinks about Harry's clothes. Grasping at the rough lapels of his dress robes, tie slipping slickly through his fingers. Ron shifts his hips a bit (this bed isn't creaky like the one at home) and slides his hand into his pyjama bottoms and feels himself through his underpants, hot and damp. This isn't the first time he's thought of Harry a little while he does this, but he's still shy about it. He can't really think of— _doing_ things with Harry. Every time he starts to go that far he feels his face grow warm, a knot of hot embarrassment in his stomach. He can't think of all that naked skin, Harry's chest and legs, and other parts.

He can think of undressing him, though. Thinks of undoing the pearly white buttons of his shirt and sliding his hands up underneath. Thinks even of undoing the laces of Harry's shiny black dress shoes, of sliding the socks off his hot, pinched feet. He lingers on that for a moment as he strokes himself with light fingertips that he can just barely feel though the thin fabric. Flutters his fingers there; the quiet is heavy in his ears.

He trails his hand up to his navel tentatively. What would it be like if someone else was touching him like that? Not Padma with her hard pointed red nails, but maybe broomstick-callused palms, warm and familiar. He's surprised at how much better it suddenly feels, sliding his hand into his pants and stroking himself while he touches his belly, his chest, his ribs. It's hard to even imagine what it might be like for a girl to touch him that way, when the hands he feels most often are Harry's — grabbing, shoving, laughing, pulling him aside. Their bodies bumping together under the invisibility cloak. So it's sort of easier to imagine them bumping together like that underneath the blankets in Ron's bed, snow chill coming off the window panes.

Ron is getting close, and he wishes this part would last longer, where it feels _so_ good to stroke and squeeze. His knees draw together without him wanting them to; he closes his eyes. He always tries to make it go on a bit, but the urge to bring it over the edge is just too strong, and then he's finishing, getting it all over his wrist and his hip. He holds back from making any sound, his mouth open and tense, back arched.

When he's done he flops back down louder than he'd meant to, and spends a minute completely still, listening for any sound of sheets or bedsprings from the rest of the room. He plays with himself a little as he lies there, all soft and sensitive now. He has a stray strange thought of Harry's mouth _there_ , and blushes it away.

The tension drains out of him gradually, and it's all he can do to quietly get his wand from under his pillow to clean up the mess. He really is tired, and he can't think about Hermione or dancing or stupid dress robes anymore. In only moments he is half-dreaming of fairy lights and familiar hands.


End file.
